


what kind of man?

by supersonica



Series: kisses are a far better fate than wisdom [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: February Kiss Prompt, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mention of major character death, Nonbinary Character, Other, Resurrection, also guess who's given up and started using florence + the machine titles, badly written romance novel plot devices that sounds suspiciously like my own writing, molly uses he/him, post-resurrection, saddish anyway, this bitch, this one is.....sad, tommy thinks she can write atmosphere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 18:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17668193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersonica/pseuds/supersonica
Summary: “Are you real?” Molly asked.“Pardon?”“Are you—” Molly pressed his palm against Caleb’s chest, roughly over his heart, and Caleb prayed to the Raven Queen that Molly couldn’t tell how fast his heart was beating at the sheer vulnerability of sitting at Molly’s side, “—real?”





	what kind of man?

**Author's Note:**

> aries brain: make it sad! make it sad! make it sad!
> 
> oops
> 
> 7\. secret kiss & 8\. "giddy that we're alive" kiss

03 (giddy we’re alive kiss/secret kiss)

 

_And with one kiss_

_You inspired a fire of devotion_

_That lasts for twenty years_

_What kind of man loves like this?_

 

_ (florence + the machine — what kind of man) _

 

It had been raining the day they brought Molly back.

The ceremony, on the floor of a stone temple to a long-forgotten god, had been interrupted every few minutes by loud cracks of lightning and shaking booms of thunder—Jester had barely been able to get through the ritual. Yasha’s gaze never left Molly’s cold body, but Caleb could have sworn that with every flash of light in the temple’s sole window, her eyes flashed black.

Beau, Fjord and Yasha had given offerings—the Fool card, an idol to the Moonweaver, and a single pressed flower—while Nott and Caleb stood watch at the door, waiting for anything that might come to find them.

It had been a long hour, a hard one, but at the end of it Caleb had heard Jester say a few last pleas to her Traveler and then—nothing, it seemed. Resurrection was apparently a far more subdued affair than his stories and texts had led him to believe. He’d missed Molly’s first few breaths watching for any of the beasts that had been tracking them, but turned his head just long enough to catch a glimpse of fluttering red eyes and a gasp before Molly lost consciousness, his body overwhelmed with the stress of returning to life after just over a year gone.

The rain continued as they brought Molly back to the inn.

It had been early autumn by the time they’d gotten enough resources together to even think of bringing Molly back, and nearly winter before they managed to do it. The cold northern rains that Caleb was accustomed to were particularly unforgiving this year, sending chills deep into everyone’s bones as they helped Yasha carry Molly’s unconscious body from the cart and up the stairs of the Thieving Bard Inn.

From his research—which had been _extensive_ if he did say so himself—Caleb knew that it likely would be at least four days until Molly was well enough to even consider travelling again. The Nein had decided to take shifts of one or two to watch over their friend in that time, though it had taken some convincing for Yasha and Jester to even consider leaving Molly alone for a while.

And now it was Caleb’s turn, at quarter past midnight, to sit by the weak firelight and make sure no harm came to Molly on the thirteenth of Cuersaar, the Night of Ascension, or—if you were a believer in such things—the night when souls were most at risk of losing their bodies and finding their way to the Raven Queen’s realm. Caleb was not a believer, any more, in the ghost stories and spirit-tales his mother used to tell him, but all the same he thought it unwise to mention the date to any of his more superstitious companions.

So there he sat, feeling his fingers slowly start to chill, despite the fire magic in his veins, as the night grew colder, and the warmth of Frumpkin around his neck. Listening to the heavy clatter of rain against the tin roof and the dripping of water into a tin bucket in another room, and the gentle, miraculous breathing of his dreaming friend.

It was also raining in the book Beau had presented him with that evening.

“Just in case you get bored of your nerd shit,” she’d said, holding it pinched between two fingers. “It seems like your kind of thing.”

Caleb wasn’t sure what exactly about _Flirting with Death_ seemed like ‘his kind of thing’, apart from one of the main characters being a mage, but nevertheless he was glad for some kind of company on this—as the book put it—dark and stormy night. Unfortunately, it seemed like the servant of the Raven Queen would never admit his feelings for the sorcerer before his time was up, but Caleb supposed there were worse ways to spend an evening than alone with a mediocre romance, his cat, and an old friend.

Even if said old friend’s tattoos seemed to dance in the firelight and shimmer before his eyes, and if Caleb let himself stare too long he had to fight the urge to run his fingers though Molly’s hair and—

No.

Back to the book.

 _The Servant watched in vain as his sorcerer—_ the _sorcerer, he had to keep reminding himself, there was no world in which Shaun was even remotely his—stood his ground against the beast that had attacked them. Watching how the man weaved and drew his magic through the air, the Servant could not help the affection, the pure attraction he felt towards the other man._

_With a final Counterspell—its ferocity and power sending a surge of arousal through the Servant’s body—_

Frumpkin, reading over Caleb’s shoulder, rolled his eyes and hacked up some fur.

“Oh, shut up,” said Caleb. “It’s a good spell.”

_—the sorcerer turned back to the Servant and, kindly, asked, “Darling, are you alright?”_

_And the Servant tried, he tried_ very _hard, to keep himself from wanting Shau—the sorcerer. It was impossible, given how gentle he could be, and how patient he was with the Servant, and how lovely his eyes looked in the firelight, it was impossible not to fall in love with him._

_But the Servant knew that love, at least this kind of mortal love, would never be for him. He would carry his secret candle of love—_

“Yes, Frumpkin, I _know_.”

_—until his second dying day, but that was the price, it seemed, of falling in love with a mortal. He could never put to words just how far he’d go for Shaun Gilmore, and he could never tell him just what that gentle half-smile meant to him, but it seemed foolish not to at least admit it to himself._

_He was in love with this man, and no one could ever know—_

“Caleb?”

Molly’s voice was weak and raspy, like there were several thousand grains of sand coating the inside of his throat. He’d sleepily sat half up in his bed, turned towards Caleb, most of the colour drained from his violet skin by the sudden beam of moonlight that hit his face—the first moonlight Caleb had seen through the clouds since Molly’s resurrection. His blood red eyes were wide and scared, the same look Caleb knew personally meant that Molly wasn’t completely sure this was real.

“Yes, Mollymauk,” he said, moving slowly towards the edge of the bed and stretching out one hand into Molly’s reach. He could feel, instinctively, Frumpkin follow just behind him, tail likely raised and hooked at the tip as he considered the situation.

Molly stared at Caleb’s hand, considering and seemed about to take it before a _crack_ of lightning shook the room and the moonlight vanished. Instantly, Molly’s shoulders tensed, his tail moving violently beneath the sheets as his eyes flickered between Caleb’s hand, his face, the storm outside the window, and his own trembling claws.

Caleb moved a little closer, concerned, but Molly flinched away.

“Mollymauk?” Caleb backed away a step, crouching a little so Molly could see his face a little better. He remembered, back in the hazy days he’s spent in the asylum, that knowing who was with him in the room had always calmed him a little, and he prayed it would help Molly.

It seemed to, a little, as when Molly’s eyes next met Caleb’s they weren’t quite so tight with fear. Caleb was relieved, for a moment, until—

“Empty.”

Molly’s voice was still croaky and rough, but now it had taken on a new tone of despair. He grabbed at Caleb’s hand, holding it hard enough to hurt, but that was nothing next to the cold stone sinking in Caleb’s stomach as he watched Molly blink rapidly, desperate for words.

“I—I—” he began, almost choking, “I—Caleb—e-empty, Caleb, _empty.”_

Caleb put his other hand over Molly’s and almost shivered at how cold it was. Molly was only wearing a light shirt and a blanket, which had slipped off when he sat up, and now that Caleb was closer he could hear Molly’s breath coming in stuttering gasps.

“Shh, shh,” he said, wincing at how his own rough voice sounded trying to soothe, “you’re alright, Mollymauk Tealeaf. You’re safe here. You’re safe w-with me.”

Without letting go of Molly’s hand, Caleb slowly moved to sit on the bed next to him, close as he dared, as he pulled one hand free to tug the blanket back over Molly’s right shoulder. Molly kept watching their intertwined fingers, and Caleb thought he saw him relax the tiniest bit when Caleb started bushing his thumb over the back of Molly’s hand. Frumpkin, sensing the need for a warm, fluffy animal, hopped into Molly’s lap.

The three of them sat that way for a few minutes. Caleb continued to smooth over the back of Molly’s hand, moving his other palm to clasp Molly’s fingers, and making the kind of soft, soothing noises he remembers his own mother—or maybe it was Nott?—saying to him when he was fever-sick. Eventually, the death grip loosened slightly as Molly started to pat Frumpkin, stroking his hands through the fey king’s soft fur.

“Mollymauk,” Caleb started, “are you feeling a little better?”

Molly hummed, not quite committing to an answer, his whole focus apparently on brushing out Frumpkin’s fur. After a few moments, though, Molly looked up at Caleb, meeting his worried gaze. The firelight gave everything in the room a soft golden glow, illuminating the sharp planes of Molly’s face in an almost ethereal light. He didn’t look, Caleb thought, alive, exactly, or at least not mortal. His deep red eyes were burning so bright they looked like they belonged on the face of a god, not a shivering tiefling.

“Are you real?” Molly asked.

“Pardon?”

“Are _you_ —” Molly pressed his palm against Caleb’s chest, roughly over his heart, and Caleb prayed to the Raven Queen that Molly couldn’t tell how fast his heart was beating at the sheer vulnerability of sitting at Molly’s side, “—real?”  

Caleb’s brows furrowed. “I don’t know how you expect me to answer that,” he said, “because even if I were not real I would probably still say that I am.”

Molly stared at him, eyes flickering between Caleb’s own, before his mouth curled into the smallest lopsided grin, one fang sticking out. It was absolutely unreasonable how many times Caleb had found himself distracted by that one little tooth while Molly was talking or smiling or even just asleep in their cart, and apparently not even his death and resurrection can stop Caleb from staring at where it pressed it to Molly’s bottom lip.

“You’re real, then,” Molly said, moving the hand he’d placed on Caleb’s chest upwards to grip his shoulder. “You never say that in my dreams.”

Caleb swallowed, audibly. “Oh?”

Molly nodded, his gaze now wandering over the rest of the room, over Frumpkin in his lap and the fire in the corner and—Caleb winced—raising his eyebrows at the cover of _Flirting with Death_ where it lay on the floor.  Eventually, he looked back at Caleb, and the small grin had become the widest, brightest smile Caleb had ever seen on Molly’s face. It almost took his breath away with how _happy_ Molly was, how delighted to be back in this world, even if, Caleb supposed, there could have been much nicer welcoming parties than a ragged wizard and his selfish fey cat.

“I’m alive,” Molly said, barely above a whisper, “I’m alive, a-and—you’re alive and the others are—”

He froze for a second before Caleb nodded and said, “The others are alive and well.”

Molly sobbed, once, and before Caleb could really think about what he was doing, he’d let go of Molly’s grip to wrap both arms around his chest and pull him in tight, so Molly was half on his lap. If Molly thought it was odd that the most touch-averse member of their group was letting him cling to him like a liferaft, he said nothing, only continuing to cry, softly, into Caleb’s old shirt. Eventually, the sobs broke up a bit and Caleb could understand what Molly was saying.

“You—you all br-brought me b-back—after—gods—you wanted me _back_ —I,” he gasped. Caleb could feel Molly’s shaky breath over his throat, and if that didn’t tighten a vice around his heart, gods.

Caleb moved one hand around to cup the back of Molly’s neck, feeling the old scars underneath his palm. Behind him, Caleb felt Molly’s tail wrap around his back, holding them both together.

“Don’t thank us yet,” he said, because this is _Caleb_ , what else could he say, “it took us a year to find the components an-and I was so slow to work out the spell we needed, I—I’m sorry.”

Molly let out a wet laugh, and pressed so close to Caleb’s skin he could feel Molly’s lips brush against his collarbone. “As if I could complain, you—fuck, Caleb. You guys brought me _back_ . I—I can’t—you brought _me_ back, not—not him. You asked for _me_.”

He tilted his head back a little to meet Caleb’s gaze, smiling so hard Caleb’s own jaw ached. He did his best to return the smile, horrifically aware of how warm Molly’s waist felt beneath his dry hands, and how close Molly’s face and his fangs and his _lips_ were to Caleb’s. Apparently unaware of the effect he was having on Caleb’s poor heart, which was beating so violently and erratically he was sure it would burst out of his throat at any moment, Molly leaned even, impossibly, closer, scrunching up his eyes as he nudged Caleb’s nose.

“I’m back,” he whispered, terrifyingly close, “I’m back, I’m alive, you’re alive, everyone’s okay, I’m alive, I’m alive—” The whispers had become nearly a chant, and Caleb found himself—despite every nerve in his body screaming at him to pull away, to leave, to go find Yasha or Jester or the Starosta of Zadash, _anyone_ else—pushing his nose back against Molly’s and whispering it back.

“You’re alive, Molly, you’re—”

“—I’m alive—I’m back—I’m not _empty_ —”

“—You’re here, oh gods, you’re—”

He was interrupted, suddenly, by the feeling of hot, tear-salty lips against his own. Molly only kissed him for a moment—and it was barely a kiss, at that, more of a press of the lips and the sensation of one glorious fang—but it was long enough for every thought to leave Caleb’s head and every desire and plan and goal to wipe itself from his brain, save for _do not move_.

A second later, when he opened his eyes—when had they closed?—he saw Molly once again wide-eyed in fear, sitting back as far as he could in Caleb’s tight embrace. For one awful moment Caleb thought that the emptiness had returned, but the light wasn’t dulled in Molly’s eyes as it had been earlier. It was bonfire-bright, set off gorgeously by the glow of the fire and the intermittent flashing of the lightning out the window. The tail that had wrapped itself around Caleb almost reflexively earlier was gone, now swaying behind Molly in short, sharp movements.

“I—I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” Molly said, touching his fingers to his lips seemingly without realising.

Caleb wondered if Molly’s mouth was burning the same was his was.

“It’s okay,” he replied, even though it very, very much wasn’t, gods, how the _fuck_ was Caleb supposed to concentrate on anything but Molly’s mouth ever again, “you were, ah, just excited. I know you don’t mean anything by it.”

In the fraction of a moment after the words left Caleb’s mouth he thought he saw—and he hated himself for thinking this—Molly’s eyebrows furrow just the slightest bit, as if he didn’t quite understand what Caleb meant.

Then, his expression cleared and he coughed, once. “Um. Yes.” Molly nodded, and Caleb felt the sight of a deep mauve flush on Molly’s cheeks like a blow to the ribs.

He knew—he _knew_ —it was embarrassment, that Molly had acted in the moment and none of the humiliatingly sentimental feelings growing in his chest were reciprocated but, gods, it was nearly an hour past midnight on the most ominous day of the year, and for a few seconds, Caleb let himself imagine.

“Really,” Molly continued, and Caleb forced himself to snap out of it, “I know you aren’t that comfortable with touch, and here I am practically throwing myself at you, I—yeah. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

Caleb decided, selfishly, not to mention that it was he who had pulled Molly half into his lap. “It’s alright, Mollymauk, really. I don’t mind. Do you,” he cast his mind around for any other possible conversation topic, “need some water? Food? You must be starving.”

Wrapping the blanket back around his shoulders where it had slipped off, Molly slid from Caleb’s lap back onto the bed, crawling up to the headboard. Frumpkin, a traitorous familiar who still hadn’t completely forgiven Caleb for that time with the kobolds, joined him and began pawing at Molly’s arm for attention.

“Both of those would be excellent, if you can manage them at this time of night,” he said, letting his mouth fall back into an easy grin as he scratched Frumpkin’s ears. “And could you, um—is Yasha around? I’d love to see her.”

Caleb nodded, understanding this as a dismissal. He got to his feet, running a hand through his hair, and said, “I shall see what I can do. Will you be alright if I leave you alone with Frumpkin for a few minutes?”

Molly hummed in agreement, his attention apparently completely focussed on giving Frumpkin the best head rub the fey king had ever had. But just as Caleb was about to unlock the door, Molly said, “Oh, also, Caleb?”

“ _Ja?_ ” he asked, turning to listen.

Molly didn’t look at him, instead boring new spots into Frumpkin’s fur with those powerful red eyes. “Could we, um, could you not tell anyone I kissed you? I don’t want—I mean,” he stuttered, frustrated. Sat in bed, wrapped in a blanket and petting Caleb’s cat, with the low flicker of the firelight casting soft shadows across his skin and the sound of rain in the background, Caleb almost couldn’t bear how domestic the scene was.

“Of course,” Caleb said, relieved to see the tension bleed from Molly’s shoulders. “It can be our secret. You, me, and Frumpkin.”

Thank the gods, Molly smiled at that. “And your friend in black leather over there,” he added, nodding at where _Flirting with Death_ still lay on the floor. “He looks like he’s been watching us the whole time. Not that I’m opposed, of course.”

Caleb rolled his eyes, dismayed at how giddy he felt seeing Molly appreciate his bad half-joke. Closing the door as gently as he could behind him, he paused for a moment, leaning back against the wall.

Not for the first time, Caleb felt a spike of hatred for his near-perfect memory. He almost had to choke back a sob at the knowledge that no matter how hard he tried there was nothing he could do short of magical violation to wipe away the memory of Molly’s warm, shivering body in his arms, Molly’s wet, hiccuping laugh, a crooked fang pressed against his lips.

_—He was in love with this man, and no one could ever know—_

Perhaps the Servant was onto something.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to everyone who helped with the book title and also effy for reminding me of the power of song titles


End file.
